


Hug Kiss Finger Come

by stargategeek



Series: Spearmint, Cigarettes, Lilac, Champagne [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Fingering, One Shot, Political, Royalty, Smut, The title pretty much sums it up, bookcase sex, bougie Sansa, bratty Sansa, sexy political talk, sweet & smoky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 19:32:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16582682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargategeek/pseuds/stargategeek
Summary: “Do you know Petyr Baelish?““Why yes, I do.”





	Hug Kiss Finger Come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ophelia_Raine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/gifts).



“Do you know Petyr Baelish?“

“Why yes, I do.”

~~~~

**Hug**

He’s been avoiding her all evening. God damn him.

He stands across the room chatting to the Foreign Minister.

Damn him for being so calm. The place could be on fire and he’d still hold himself with such dapper dignity.

She hates him.

That grey-green gaze slides over to her briefly and he lets slip a small grin. He knows.

She sips her champagne.

“You’re skulking.”

Jon appears at her side, his face most disapproving.

“I am not!”

“You look as though you are expecting someone.”

She rolls her eyes.

“As always brother, you host such riveting parties.”

She drains her glass and goes on the hunt for another.

Jon can scold her for her behaviour later. She doesn’t care. She’s bored and she wants attention. A very specific sort of attention. _His_.

The warmth of his hand on the small of her back is instantly soothing.

“Have I ever told you about Baelor and the Maidenvault?”

“Fuck off.”

He plucks the champagne glass from her hand.

“Do control yourself, sweetling.”

Her cheeks burn with anger and a touch of embarrassment.

“You keep touching her.”

He doesn’t respond, but his eyes regard her carefully.

“On the elbow, the hand, her back. When you should be touching _me.”_

His smile is infuriatingly pleased.

“Mere courtesies.” The scent of mint invades her as he leans up to her ear. “I would much rather be touching you.”

He leaves her once more for the Foreign Minister. A woman with elegant hands and a tasteful black dress

Sansa feels tawdry and childish in the bright red gown she chose to be _noticed_.

The woman touches his arm- an all too-telling gesture. Courtesies. Hah!

Bitch.

The violinists begin their third set of the evening. And fuck it all, she’ll deal with the fall out later.

She wants to march over there and push the Foreign Minister straight into the display of eclairs.

She reins herself in though, taking slow measured steps towards him.

“Excuse me Foreign Minister.”

She is beyond _courtesies_.

“Oh Myranda Royce, please,” the woman bows her head. Sansa doesn’t care.

“A word.”

It is not a request. His mouth puckers the way that it does when he’s deciding what to say. His mind is working out the ramifications - his eyes glitter with pride.

He nods and lets her lead him away.

“Dance with me, Petyr.”

She tugs him on to the dance floor.

“One dance and I swear I’ll behave myself like a good little girl the rest of the evening.”

“You’re going to cause an ado.”

“Just dance with me.”

Petyr grasps her hand and pulls her into a gentle sway.

The ease of his hands melts away all her raging restlessness. It is a simple waltz, but Petyr is an excellent dancer. “A necessary skill for any man who wants to make a name for himself in court.”

And he would know. After all, he was most famously her late aunt’s paramour. He was practically family.

Sansa giggles to herself.

“You’re amused?”

Sansa shakes her head and wraps her arms around him. An embrace that was slightly beyond propriety. But he smelt of sandalwood and spearmint and cigarettes, and she smelt of lilac and Chanel and champagne. All she wanted was to hold him close and breathe him in.

“Look behind me,” she whispers into his ear. “Is my brother watching us?”

Petyr did. He was.

“Like a hawk.”

Sansa hugs him even closer.

“What does his face look like?”

“Infuriated.”

“Good.”

She smiles and pulls away. The dance comes to an end.

“Thank you, Petyr, for the dance.”

His hand grips her forearm.

“I will see you later.”

His tone was unmistakable.

“I do feel a headache coming on. Perhaps I did have too much champagne. I should put myself in a cab, but...” her face is demure and her thoughts are wicked. “...who knows where I’ll end up.”

His fingers slip a key into her palm.

“Use the back entrance this time.”

Sansa nods and tucks the key into her clutch, leaving him without a second glance. She makes sure she walks right by Jon on her way out.

“I hope you’re happy with yourself.”

Sansa rolls her eyes.

“Goodnight brother.” She stops where she stands and curtsies. “I mean, your highness.”

It had been a dull party, but she foresaw a sharp turnaround for the rest of the evening.

~~~~

**Kiss**

“You’re being petulant.”

“We haven’t done it in so long.”

“Now is hardly the time.”

They should be out there, she knows. They should be at her brother’s side. But they are in the toilets, and she is about to beg.

“I have all of five minutes before I am due to make a speech.”

He looks so fine in his three-piece suit. Sansa just wants to unravel him.

“Please, Petyr,” she whines. She presses against him. She grinds against him. “Just give it to me.”

His eyes are hooded, she knows he’s affected, but he still manages to maintain composure.

“I thought your partying days were over.”

“They are.”

“They don’t seem to be.”

“Just a small hit so I can get through this boring ass ceremony.”

Jon was always worried about the optics.

“Please, Petey, I’ll do anything.”

She lowers herself to her knees and nuzzles her face into his crotch. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s had to do a little blowing to get a little blow.

“No, no,” he groans. She outlines the growing bulge in his trousers with the tip of her nose. She bites the swell of him. He hisses. “I haven’t got any.”

She groans. “You always have something. I know you do. Somewhere in that Louis Vuitton, you have something to give me what I need.”

She unbuckles him and mouths him through his sleek black underwear.

He moans and checks his watch. There isn’t enough time for this.

“As a matter of fact I do have something.”

Sansa was relentless, moving the underwear aside to tongue the head of his cock. Petyr moans.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a small packet of pills.

Sansa’s mouth leaves him to his frustration and relief. She licks her lips at the gleaming little blue pills.

“Seems I’m not the only one who hasn’t put their partying days behind them.”

“One never stops, one simply becomes more sophisticated.”

He buckles himself back up and lures her over to the velvet-cushioned bench with the little baggy of desired drugs.

“Just one for now.”

Sansa nods and opens her mouth. He holds the pill betwixt his thumb and forefinger. Her lips wrap around the sweet and his digits, pumping them with her tongue in a mimicry of what she would have done with his cock if he’d let her.

She swallows and it is instant bliss.

“There. Is my lady satisfied?”

She leans up, in between his legs so she can still feel his hardness against her belly. She slithers against him until she reaches his mouth and kisses him, sweet and sultry.

“Much.”

He scoops her into his arms and curls her comfortably on the bench.

“Stay here, relax. Daddy’s gotta go to work, but I’ll be back to collect you once I’m done.”

“Mmmm, thanks daddy,” she murmurs sleepily.

He tucks her hair behind her ear.

“Mmmmmmmloveyou,” she falls into her bliss. Petyr sighs and drops a singular kiss to her forehead.

“I know.” He grins.

~~~~

**Finger**

“Oh Christ!”

“Shhh...“

She soothes him. After all day being bent over backwards to please everybody it’s nice for him to be the one who is bent over.

He slams his hand down on the desk as she curls her finger inside him.

“Oh fuck, oh geez, oh FUCK!”

She smiles. Her actions are almost lazy. Some could read bored. But she enjoys every moment of his surrender.

She drops a kiss to his clothed shoulder.

“Pass me a cigarette, will you?”

When he doesn’t immediately move she jabs another finger into him and curls it upwards causing him to rise and hiss.

“Unghhh,” he moans through clenched teeth and digs into his suit jacket blindly for his cigarette case, practically throwing it at her.

He collapses once more against the desk, grinding his crotch against the grooves of the drawer.

Sansa smiles, placing the case on the flat plain of his back and delicately plucking out a long white Marlboro.

“You buy such cheap shit.”

He moans and laughs. “I like the cheap shit.”

She curls her finger once again.

“It wouldn’t kill you to stash away one or two of my brand, would it?”

He lurches as she grazes his prostate.

“The government isn’t made of money you know,” he is teasing. Even with her hand up his ass he is as smug as ever.

She lights the cigarette one handed and inhales it deeply before leaning down and blowing the smoke into his face.

“Well if you’re too busy I should go then, let you get back to work.”

“No, no!

He reaches behind him to cling to her hand, keeping it from slipping out.

“I’ll get some. I’ll get some. Diamond Class or whatever the hell it is.”

Sansa smiles triumphantly. She rewards him with a few firm strokes which he sighs appreciatively for. He is always more preferable to her finger than he is to any of her plethora of toys. He likes the human connection.

Sansa stamps out the cigarette in the ash tray and lies down on her back beside him on the desk, their faces side by side and her legs falling open as they drape over the edge.

“Still, we shouldn’t be wasting time.”

With her free hand she reaches between their bodies to fish out his hand. She brings the index to her mouth and coats it indulgently with her tongue before bringing the warm wet finger to her entrance.

“I have a hair appointment at three.”

Petyr laughs and pumps his finger inside her in time to the thrust of hers.

~~~~

**Come**

“Your brother wants Umber to retain his father’s seat.”

Petyr bumps her into the bookcase harder than intended.

“Uhhh...Idiot!“

Sansa’s knees hug his sides as his hips pump between them like the pistoning flank of a prize thoroughbred.

“Ahh...and what would you do?”

Ever the teacher, even as his knuckles curl and turn white over the shelves. Sansa’s head bumps against a heavy tome of history.

“Ahh! Umber voted against us in the Bolton Bill - ugh! His seat should go to one who was loyal to us...ohhhhh! One who will give us majority.”

“Ohhh, yes!“ Petyr slams his hand against the wood. “Too bad your brother doesn’t see things that way.”

Sansa runs her nails down his back, clutching the exquisitely painted digits over his powering hind quarters.

“Jon mistakingly thinks himself a man of honour.”

Petyr drops his head to kiss her breast.

“He wants to be seen as fair-minded to all parties.”

He hits a particularly good spot that makes her whimper.

“Your brother is weak.”

Petyr pants, increasing his pace even more so. Sansa lifts her arms above her to cling to the upper shelf for leverage - suspending her body in the air as Petyr furiously oscillates within it.

“Ohhh there!” Sansa’s eyes clench.

“You would never show such weakness! You would never let something so flimsy as nobility stand in the way of what you want!”

“No!” she cries. “Whats the point when there’s no punishment for treason and no reward for loyalty!”

“Uhhh-good girl, ohhh good girl....”

“Oh fuck, it should’ve been me!”

Petyr grunts loudly, throwing his head back.

“I’m coming...Petyr, I’m coming!”

“For gods sake COME!”

Sansa shakes on him violently, her mouth falling open in a silent scream. Her arms let go of the bookcase and her body practically falls on to Petyr. She wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face into his shoulder, biting him.

The sting was just what he needed to fall over with her and he comes with a long, deep groan and then stillness.

Sansa thought she had lost consciousness for a moment. The luxury of her high sweeping her above the clouds, above this room, above the palace - above everything.

When she floats back down Petyr is there, whispering sweet things to her ear and holding her drained body as close as he can to his sweaty, naked self.

“It should have been you,” he whispers. “It should have been.”

They press their foreheads together. Kissing - breathing.

“This country made a grave mistake choosing an illegitimate bastard as its king when it should’ve had you. You. You, you, glorious you.”

Sansa kisses him. It’s a long, indulgent kiss.

“I think the young Lady Mormont would be a much better fit for Umber’s seat.”

Petyr laughs, kissing her again.

“You read my fucking mind.”

“I always did like a good meeting of the minds,” she teases. Petyr was already beginning to stir again inside her. “Are their anymore policies you wish to discuss?”

Petyr groans, lifting her up off the bookcase and carrying her to the desk.

“I think it’s about time I gave you some lessons in etiquette. For the Dornish Ambassador’s visit.”

“Ohh?” she giggles as he gently drops her on the smooth oak surface. She shivers as her sweat-slicked back contacts the cold, hard wood.

“The key thing to know is,” he slithers downwards, parting her legs. “They do not eat with their hands.”

Sansa closes her eyes, anticipating utter bliss.

“Prime Minister!” somebody bangs on the door and Petyr shoots up to standing.

“Shit,” he mutters, hastily pulling on his trousers and searching the floor for his tie. “Just a moment!”

Sansa climbs off the desk and quickly throws on her dress and blazer and braids her sex-crazed hair into a smooth plait.

By the time Petyr opens the door to his underling both of them looked as though they had been simply sitting there talking.

“What is it Olyvar, I’m in a meeting.”

Sansa waves.

The young man’s eyes went wide. “Princess Sansa.” He bows.

“Can it wait?“

“You are needed in Parliament.”

Petyr looks over to Sansa. Shrugs. “The country never waits.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Sansa winks, knowingly.

Petyr dismisses Olyvar and goes to grab his suit jacket from its hook.

“You will pass on my recommendations to your brother, will you? You’ve always had his ear.”

Sansa grins.

“He doesn’t seem to like you very much, does he?”

“That’s because he knows I’m a clever man who will do anything to get what I want. Including my dastardly intentions towards the beloved Princess of Winterfell.“

Sansa smoothes the wrinkles of her skirt.

“He thinks you have me wrapped around your little finger.”

Petyr cups her cheek, stroking his thumb over her soft skin.

“Little does he know. I am not the one in control here,” he kisses her softly, almost chaste. “It is you who has me thoroughly wrapped around your finger.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for Ophelia_Raine because she is so damn freaking supportive and encouraging and amazing, and she has kept me writing these past few months.
> 
> So, look, I’ve posted something now! Woo!


End file.
